


Competitive Proposals and their Ensuing Time Shenanigans 101

by BenvolioPontmercy



Category: Milo Murphy's Law
Genre: Competition, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Time Shenanigans, Time Travel, my boys are getting married y'all
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-16
Updated: 2018-03-16
Packaged: 2019-04-01 01:45:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13987872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BenvolioPontmercy/pseuds/BenvolioPontmercy
Summary: The pistachio protectors find out their future selves are engaged. It quickly turns into a competition of who can propose first, full of time hi-jinks and alternate selves tomfoolery.





	Competitive Proposals and their Ensuing Time Shenanigans 101

**Author's Note:**

> Oh boy oh boy, I haven't posted on here in three years but uhhh.... I really love them time travel pistachio boys? To the handful of people who subscribed to my author page like four years ago when I was doing Imitation Game stuff, I'm so sorry if you have to see an e-mail about this

“Are you gonna finish that?”

Cavendish peered over his newspaper to see his boyfriend eyeing the plate of fish and chips sitting between them on the table. With a sigh, he pushed the plate towards Dakota begrudgingly. His eyes returned to his newspaper, and, when he looked back up, the food had already been scarfed down. Cavendish lovingly rolled his eyes at the only person he’d ever met who could put down a full plate of food so quickly. It was astonishing, honestly. Truly a modern miracle. He made a mental note to have Dakota’s body donated to science after his death.

“Ey, Cav? Hello-oo? You’re zoning out there buddy.” Dakota waved his hand in front of Cavendish’s eyes to no avail. “Wait, you’re—you’re daydreaming about donating my body to science again, aren’t you! We talked about this!”

Cavendish snapped out of his thoughts and offered a small shrug. “All I’m saying is that doctors will be simply delighted to understand the wonders of your body.”

“Yeah, well, for now let’s keep it to only you being delighted by the ‘wonders of my body’.”

The Brit scoffed and held his newspaper over his face in indignation, which Dakota swiftly took the liberty of crumpling back down. “Why are you reading the newspaper anyway? It’s, like, the future. We can literally have the news sent directly to our brains, or whatever. Creepy, but effective. But creepy.”

Cavendish resigned to folding the newspaper and placing it aside, for now. The sight of it was replaced by the image of Dakota having sprawled himself across the table just to push down the paper. His eye twitched ever so slightly.

“Vincent!” he snapped, “For the millionth time, the table is a place for eating, not for making grand displays of affection!” Dakota shrugged and made himself more comfortable on the table, spreading out and examining his nails nonchalantly. Cavendish decided to ignored it, for once, and continued, “I’ll have you know, this newspaper was sent directly to me by Brick and Savannah! Apparently, they picked it up during a recent mission in the 1980s. They said there was pertinent information in it, and I intend to discover what that is. Perhaps King Pistachion returned! Or worse, some temporal loop lead to the failure of the launch of music videos, our favorite form of 22nd century entertainment!”

“Eh, overrated,” Vinnie said indifferently. “You know they killed the radio star? Heartless monsters, all of them.”

Cavendish huffed. “Well, regardless of your feelings on the matter, I am not going to let a direct communication from the Time Bureau’s top agents go unresponded to!"

“Suit yourself. Hey, hand me the page with the comics on it. I love those strange little talking animals that people from the past always drew. They really just don’t make ‘em like they used to.”

Happy to get back to work, Cavendish plucked out the section Dakota requested and resumed his previous task. He scanned headlines for a few moments before hearing a loud groan.

“Dakota, could you please keep it down? Some of us are trying to focus on more important things than Marmadoogle right now.”

“First of all, we both know that you know that’s wrong. More importantly, I’m upset because this is a reprint, it’s the one where Garfield hates Mondays and then eats some lasagna. What a rip-off.” He slouched and folded his arms, pouting like a petulant child.

Cavendish rolled his eyes, used to similar scenes from Dakota. “Well, why don’t you just read whatever else is in that section I handed you? Horoscopes or a crossword puzzle or something else of the sort. Means to keep someone of your constitution entertained.”

Dakota threw his head back and groaned. “There’s nothing else here but family notices and the sports page, and I really don’t want to spoil the ‘Officially Redacted due to Racial Insensitivity’-skins football game that I’ve got on the DVR I accidentally stole from one of our missions.”

“Not football,” Cavendish corrected haughtily. “You know that in this home, we solely refer to it as 'bastard Yank rugby facsimile'. Besides, can’t you just read the family notices? You love mushy things such as those. You cried at a billboard with a baby on it yesterday, and the day before that—” He was quickly drowned out by the noise of Dakota trying to speak through sobs.

“Cav, you won’t believe this. Bethany and Thomas McPherson had a beautiful baby boy last Tuesday at 4:43 a.m., and they named him—” he paused to sniffle, “—Michael! They named him Michael, Cav! Life is so beautiful!”

Cavendish smiled sweetly at the enraptured man, not even bothering to point out that “last Tuesday” was in fact over a century in the past and “Michael” was likely dead by that point. Instead, he returned to his newspaper, hoping to now have fewer distractions (outside of the stream of happy tears coming from across the table.)

His brow furrowed as his focus turned back to headlines. What could be so important that Brick and Savannah would contact him directly to show it to him, yet so mysterious that they couldn’t tell him exactly what it was? Perhaps a evidence of top-secret pistachio-based militia was leaked to the public, and he was the only one who could save the world from its menacing grip! Well, with Dakota, of course. But mostly him. He could picture it now: Brick and Savannah on their knees, swearing their unworthiness of being in the presence of such a prestigious time agent. Mr. Block stumbling over his words as he sheepishly admits to underestimating Cavendish’s abilities and apologetically promoting him to number one head agent of super-secret world saving time travel. Dakota crying, “my hero!” before swooning into his arms. Well, that one already happened regularly, but he reminded himself that the context was the key factor there.

Finally, he wouldn’t be a screw-up. His coworkers would respect him for once. His significant other wouldn’t be stuck with the ass who had failed every mission to save nothing more than a simple green nut. People wouldn’t pull Dakota aside at the office parties to ask him, in more discreet terms, why he hadn’t given up and left Cavendish yet. Not anymore.

Then again… Dakota had never complained. Not once. Balthazar had even watched him in those party conversations—occasionally through some finagling with the time space continuum and alternate selves who could hide behind columns. Every time, all he said was, “It’s Cavendish. What are you gonna do?” Cavendish couldn’t help but smile to himself from behind his newspaper. He even dared to sneak one little peek over its edge to dote on his supportive boyfriend for a moment. And there was his boyfriend, smiling back at—

“What the dickens?”

The supportive boyfriend was nowhere to be found.

In his place was the portion of the newspaper he’d been fawning over with one portion circled in red ink. “Vincent?” he called out, before repeating it slightly louder. No response. “Oh, well, I suppose he went out for a bit, maybe—wait.” Cavendish shot up, throwing his newspaper on the ground in the process. “He didn’t finish this donut!”

Cavendish put on his detective hat (literally, replacing his top hat for a deerskin) and examined the scene. “Perhaps…” he said suspiciously, “It had something to do with… This used napkin!” Cavendish snatched up the napkin triumphantly before dropping it back on the table. “Wait, no, this was mine. Dakota doesn’t utilize napkins.” The trail was, once again, cold, and the Brit slumped down into Dakota’s seat. “If only there were something to tell me what made him leave, something circled and in a bold color, such as red!”

At this moment his eyes fell on the red, circled passage in the newspaper.

“Ingenious.”

He carefully lifted the page so as to not disturb the evidence. “Now, let’s lee what he had here. Well, clearly, he used a BiC Atlantis Retractable Ball Pen in crimson. Stunning. But what does it mean?” Suddenly, Cavendish had an epiphany. “Perhaps, it is the words within the circle!”

As he scanned, Cavendish’s eyes grew wider and his jaw dropped further.

“Vincent Dakota and Balthasar Cavendish are pleased to announce their engagement, occurring on October 23rd, 1983 at the Landmark Danville Tower. The wedding will be held at a private location and time, but any and all gifts are appreciated.”

Cavendish gasped. “I can’t believe it! They put his name first, and they spelled my name wrong!” He gasped again, this time more dramatically. “Dakota and I are getting engaged!”

He was furious.

“I cannot believe that man! He explicitly knew that I wanted to be the one to propose, and yet he goes and capers off to do so himself when he receives the upper hand. Well jokes on him. I’m going to take the time car, pick up a ring, and make a public display of just how much I love him! That will show him, alright!” Cavendish monologued to himself whilst stomping around the cramped apartment, looking for the keys to the time car, which just so happened to find themselves missing. Or taken. “That rascal! He foresaw my ingenious plan and thwarted it by taking the time car himself! Unluckily for him, I always have a backup plan.”

Cavendish bolted out of the apartment, slamming his Time Bureau badge against the window of the first time car he laid eyes on. “Excuse me, sir, I must commandeer your vehicle! It is an emergency situation!” The driver shrugged and stepped out, tossing the keys to the tall, British man.

Cavendish grinned maniacally from the driver’s seat, revving the engine. “And just think. I’ll be able to impress Brick and Savannah and get that promotion by making this the best proposal anyone has ever seen.”

“Hey!” yelled the man whose car was commandeered as Cavendish sped away into the time stream, “You’re flooding it! Jerk.”


End file.
